


a season of wildflowers

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Falling In Love, Flamboyant Jaskier, Flowers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, The Law of Surprise (The Witcher), Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), angry big and happy smol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23017018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Jaskier is attacked by a werewolf, and they won't know if he has been turned into one himself until the next full moon. He assumes Geralt is staying close until then, to make sure Jaskier doesn't escape his silver sword if he is now a monster. But is that the only reason Geralt is always hovering nearby, and could he really kill Jaskier so easily?A series of moments between a witcher and his bard, as they grow closer, less confused about the true nature of their relationship, more accepting of Destiny and her wiles, and better at communicating their love and longing. All framed around wildflowers, because a certain bard looks to the beauty and wonder in the world that a certain witcher might consider learning to enjoy, during his unnaturally long life wandering across the continent.[03 Jan 2021- ON HIATUS: As you know, this world is kinda tearing at the seams and I just don't have enough time right now to give these stories what they deserve. Seemy profilefor more info/to contact me. I will not be replying to comments on fics until further notice.]
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 138





	1. Aconite

The wound was screaming; a raw, gaping mass, oozing blood and some foul smelling frothy puss that made Jaskier want to vomit, if only he could stop howling long enough to do so. He’s squirming unhelpfully in Geralt’s hold. Unable to handle the agony, to understand that he needs to _stay still, damn it Jaskier-_

He has been accused of being a nuisance before, and disrupting Geralt’s natural witchery ways – general melancholy, and a gruff dismissal of all the joys life has to offer, in favour of glaring at various woodland until it offers up the unholy creatures lurking within, ripe for the slaughter (as far as Jaskier can tell from Geralt’s brooding). But never had Jaskier felt quite so foolish before, and so absolutely certain that he was about to sacrifice himself.

Back when the Djinn was lodged in his throat, he was more astounded what the lack of air was doing to his senses than anything else. He can’t remember feeling certain he was going to die. Jaskier hadn’t set out to get purposefully attacked by some trapped creature. He was just hoping to reacquaint himself with an old friend, one who just so happened to be an extremely accomplished hunter and therefore might be willing to share the fruits of his labours, namely fish, with Jaskier, since Geralt _was_ repeatedly casting a net into the river. How was Jaskier supposed to know witchering involved looking for trouble in otherwise peaceful rivers, with a common fishing net?

That was hardly the only time Jaskier was ever injured or otherwise affected by one of Geralt’s hunts. But it has always been a pure accident. Incidental to the main course of life; music, and the pursuit of fame. Generally, Jaskier stays well out of danger’s path. Sometimes miles away in fact, in the local tavern, sampling the delights as he waits for Geralt to return, carrying glorious tales of monsters and magic. (Usually the tales aren’t very glorious until Jaskier has polished them up a bit, but that’s by the by.) Only this time, they weren’t even hunting at all. Merely enjoying some friendly camaraderie around the campfire, as great friends and famous travel companions are wont to do, on their heroic quests.

Only, Geralt is kind of a beacon for trouble. Something about his witcher potions and rituals no doubt gives off a scent of magic, to creatures with the right kind of nose. Rarely, but not so rarely as to be unheard of, creatures just attack him without much warning. That was the case here. Though Geralt dispatched the giant wolf eventually, it wasn’t before Jaskier got in the way.

Jaskier was attempting to be heroic, during a heart-wrenching moment; wherein Geralt had been knocked into the ground so hard he actually sunk several feet into the soil, and his sword had gone flying in the opposite direction. It was very rare for Geralt to lose possession of either of his precious swords, Jaskier knew. And since Geralt didn’t immediately bounce back onto his feet, but rather lay wheezing in the dirt like an ordinary human mercenary might, well. Let’s just say Jaskier feared the worst.

It surprised everyone involved; wolf, witcher and man, when the bard found himself with silver sword in hand, brandishing it with clumsy form, rather than running far, far away. Naturally, Jaskier had been clawed aside like a peasant swatting a flea. And now he had a huge, bloody mess of ragged wounds across his shoulder, far too close to his heart and still bleeding sluggishly as Geralt attempted to sew up the mess.

But nothing was ever simple when witchers are involved.

The unnaturally large wolf carcass decided to begin shedding; moulting fur and then melting, a hugely hairy, congealed mass of flesh that stinks as it squelches together. Jaskier did vomit then, competent enough to turn his mouth away from his open wound first. He managed not to choke himself on the rabbit stew they’d just eaten, as it made an unwelcome return. But he thinks maybe he’d prefer such an ignoble death, to the disgusting sight before his eyes. Clear in the glow of moonlight; despite the incredible pain in his shoulder making his eyes stream with unnoticed tears. Somehow Jaskier knew his wounds were wrong. They were burning far too much for a ‘luckily shallow’ set of scratches.

“Shit,” Geralt said unhelpfully, stabbing him with the needle roughly. “Shit, we’re running out of time-”

Jaskier didn’t ask him to elaborate. Delirium was clearly overtaking him, as the former wolf was starting to look shockingly pale and elongated, and was that a hand? He passed out into the blessed abyss of darkness, before his mind could conjure up anything else recognisable in the squashed mass of stinking flesh.

He woke up screaming, the exposed skin of his shoulder glowing blue like sorceress’ flames, and he flailed and squirmed beneath Geralt’s hands again. It was still dark, an empty potion bottle barely visible in Geralt’s steady hands. Golden amber eyes were watching him with careful concern.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier yelled, when he remembered how to form words.

The flare of fresh pain had died down, but his skin was still blubbling with a blue glow of shimmering light, all along the lines of the wolf scratches.

“Aconite,” Geralt said, as stoic as ever, “Wolf’s Bane. Ground up, it’s the only potion capable of counteracting the werewolf’s curse. Best administered freshly brewed, when the wounds are sewn closed. I had a relatively fresh-mixed bottle. You were lucky.”

“Well I don’t feel bloody lucky!” Jaskier whined, “I feel like my arm is on fire Geralt- wait- did you say _werewolf?_ ”

His heart gave a horrible lurch. Ah. That would explain the silver sword, then.

“Am I going to…” he can’t give any further voice to his thoughts, than that meek half-formed question.

Geralt’s dispirited gaze revealed nothing.

“You’re probably going to be fine,” he said, with characteristic indifference.

Jaskier let out a hiss through his teeth, unconvinced. But another jolt in his arm had him howling in pain again, before he could ask any more questions. Besides, he didn't really want to know the answer. He doubted he'd live long enough to know what transforming into a beast was like, if scratches _were_ enough to curse him. Geralt would no doubt put him out of his misery, long before the next full moon.


	2. Bluebell

When Jaskier woke again, it was to the welcome discovery that somehow, astoundingly, Geralt had managed to travel throughout what remained of the night, find a village and gain lodgings, and lug him inside to the warmth and comfort of a room, all without Jaskier waking to contribute to the proceedings.

The reticent grump who probably just saved his life, again, was currently nowhere to be seen. It was only when Jaskier attempted to lean up to rest on his elbows, that he was rudely reminded of the severe injury he had sustained. A sharp twinge of pain had him flopping back in an undignified manner. Drawing back the collar of his undershirt revealed a clean bandage, and a peek beneath showed red, shiny scabs that were miraculously already healing. Jaskier wondered if this rapid acceleration was an effect of the potion Geralt had unceremoniously dumped all over his wounds. Probably.

Despite his curiosity, Jaskier didn’t ever expect to gain any deep understanding of the intricacies of magic. So he pushed those ponderings aside for more immediate concerns. Geralt seemed to have shelled out enough coin for a room intended for travelling merchants, because it was light and clean, nicer than the usual dingy, dark rooms with tiny windows and straw pallets they usually shared. Jaskier was only mildly disturbed to find Geralt had divested him of his breeches at some point, when he stumbled from the bed. He cared more about his scrabble to locate a chamberpot right at that moment.

He was in luck, and after attending to his earthly needs, squinting out of the window revealed a larger town than Jaskier had expected. He could make out three jumbled, vague rows of houses, leading down a hill lined with cobbled streets, filled with unfamiliar tradesmen and a bustling market. The sight of soil-encrusted vegetables set off a rumble in his offended stomach, reminding him about the loss of that rabbit stew. Before Jaskier could hobble across the room in search for his breeches, the door boomed open.

Geralt glared at it, naturally. As though its weak flimsy wood was somehow offensive to him, rather than revealing any embarrassment at forgetting his own strength versus human architecture. His eyes flickered briefly to the bed, before immediately honing in on Jaskier, who was gently swaying beside the window.

“You’re awake,” Geralt rumbled approvingly, a familiar sort of half-formed smile on his face.

Jaskier twitched. Sight of the muscled, dedicated, highly-skilled witcher reminded him that the after-affects of this particular creature culling might yet prove deadly. What would it be like to have that wall of muscle baring down on him with deadly intent? Jaskier had first-hand knowledge of how competent – nay, brutally efficient – Geralt was when dispatching most monsters, no matter how venomous, many-limbed or mesmerising they were. That idea that Jaskier might turn into a huge, slavering, foul-smelling beast, Geralt’s natural enemy, was enough to make his knees feel suddenly comprised of cow’s jelly.

Regardless of his inner turmoil and unsteady footing, Jaskier pressed a hand to the wall. and attempted his usual, bright devil-may-care smile. Apparently, he fell a little short, because Geralt looked disturbed rather than reassured by the sight.

“You should lie back down,” Geralt suggested, but his singular lack of inflection and nuance made it sound like an order. (Geralt would have a terrible singing voice, truly, except for perhaps in a choral arrangement if he was a tenor-)

Jaskier twitched, forcefully suppressing his runaway thoughts, rather than just blurting them out as he usually did. He doubted it would line up in his favour. If Geralt _was_ considering dispatching him any time soon, best not to remind the witcher of all Jaskier’s habits that he found colossally annoying, for some unfathomable reason. Picturing Geralt turning on him was making his head feel fuzzy.

“Actually, I thought I might go and find food-” Jaskier attempted to wheedle his way out of the room, despite still only being dressed in his long undershirt, which had doubled as a nightshirt for many months now.

Geralt gave him a look of mild disbelief. Or it might be constipation, you never really knew with a face like Geralt’s. Which was a handsome work of art, truly, but more akin to an impassive stone carving than a nice emotive painting.

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted his rapid musings, “Lie down. You’ve been asleep for two days. You need to build your strength up slowly.”

“Right…” Jaskier mumbled, “Two days? That’s- um- about that. Did I hear you right? Before, I mean. Was it a werewolf?”

As he spoke he slowly acceded to Geralt’s request. Jaskier was only a little chagrined to realise that Geralt might have a point, about him being cautious with what his body could tolerate. At least until he’d gotten a few decent meals in. As Jaskier crawled back into the soft bed, he was able to fully appreciate its luxury, now that he was wide awake.

Geralt sighed, long and beleaguered, when Jaskier turned and continued to look to him for answers. The bard’s eyes were watery with worry, mingled with a fool’s hope that it might all have just been a pain-induced dream, after a very normal wolf had mauled him. But no. Destiny had never been that kind to Jaskier.

“Yes,” said Geralt shortly.

Jaskier winced at the regression. He’d somehow convinced Geralt to provide full-sentence answers in the few years he’d been plastered to Geralt’s side as his unofficial crier, announcing Geralt’s good deeds in every rural village or sprawling city they encountered through the medium of his melodious music. A return to one-word answers could only be a sign of calamity.

“Where are we, anyway?” Jaskier asked.

“Bluebell,” came the clipped answer.

“I meant the name of the town, not the inn,” Jaskier clarified, as Geralt pressed a cup of water into his hands. He took a swig, and suddenly wondered why he wasn’t thirstier, if he’d been sleeping for two straight days.

Geralt glared at him, and eventually ground out; “The town is called Bluebell. Because the whole surrounding area is covered in them, come springtime. And this inn is called The Woolly Hag.”

“The Woolly-” Jaskier chucked in disbelief, “No it isn’t. The Woolly Hag indeed. Ridiculous. More ridiculous than your made-up monster names.”

“I didn’t name any of them,” Geralt sighed, allowing the old argument to wash over him as Jaskier seized on the topic to distract himself from everything Geralt wasn’t saying.

In due course a maid brought them a steaming bowl of onion soup with a nice bread roll, which Jaskier tore into like the starving waif he was, while Geralt only watched on in mild amusement. Apparently the werewolf was a nuisance in these parts and the people were inclined to be generous in their thanks toward the noble witcher that dispatched it, if the maid’s mumbling praise was anything to go by. Jaskier mostly ignored her in favour of alleviating his aching stomach.

Once the soup was gone, he fixed Geralt with his steely, determined gaze.

“It is springtime,” Jaskier pointed out, chin up, daring Geralt to deny it.

The amused quirk had never left the older man’s lips, and it somehow intensified without ever becoming a true, shameless smile, as he agreed.

“Let’s go see those bluebells then,” Jaskier announced, “If they’re worth naming a whole town after, they must be pretty spectacular.”

Geralt’s forehead immediately crinkled with disapproval.

“The sun is shining and we have once more defied death, my friend!” Jaskier proclaimed theatrically, “Will you not join me in appreciating the bounty that Melitele offers each of us freely, even the mean and lowly?”

“Hmm,” said Geralt, but he did not protest as Jaskier shuffled about, carefully tugging on his clothes.

He did insist on changing the bandages on Jaskier’s shoulder before allowing him to put his spare doublet on, however, humming again at the sight of the recently acquired scabs. He slapped some kind of healing salve on the large injury, before wrapping it in fresh linens.

Together they ambled through the cobbled streets. Geralt hovered somewhat closer to Jaskier than usual, who was used to hopping about to keep pace with the swift and determined witcher who usually strode everywhere as though he were about to charge into battle. Today his pace was more measured, slow enough that even shaky from his injury, Jaskier was able to trot along beside him evenly, without lagging.

And as they reached the outskirts, Jaskier found Geralt was entirely right about the riot of bluish-violet flowers coating the hillside. The swathe of bluebells raced up through the treeline as far as the eye could see. Utterly charmed, Jaskier found a felled stump to rest on, and immediately began composing a song about the beauteous – no, bountiful, the bountiful blue woods of Bluebell town, where the flowers shone like a river flow… and for an hour or so, he forgot entirely about the fears that were swirling about him, a waiting cascade ready to drown him.


	3. Chrysanthemum

When they returned to the room, it is to find the hearth merrily crackling to stave off the evening chill, (which is always vicious in these mountain towns) and a pot of cheerful, puffy pale-purple flowers adorning the sill of the small window. Jaskier made a beeline for the vase, even though he really could do with another two days of rest after scaling the hill into the nearby forest. The bluebells were worth it, and he had been humming his new song all the way back, but still. Sleep sounded wonderful. Just as soon as he had assessed these pretty newcomers. And written down his new lyrics, of course.

“Well, well, do you think the maid is sweet on me?” Jaskier asked brightly, “Why else would there be rare flowers in this room? Bluebells are the common currency around here, but these pretty puffballs were picked special somewhere.”

He could do with some good fortune right at this moment. All afternoon, Geralt had refused to bite any of the hooks Jaskier had cast out, regarding his possible imminent demise. Though truthfully, Jaskier had been far more subtle than usual. He had quickly petered out his efforts, when they failed to make an impact. Perhaps it was an effort on both their parts; to preserve the peace in such a beautiful place.

Jaskier couldn’t really fault Geralt’s intention to allow them an afternoon of serenity in the dappled sunshine, marvelling at the simple joys of nature, if he planned on breaking the terrible news to Jaskier sometime shortly. It would make sense, in a Geralt kind of way. He never shied away from receiving his own bad news, but perhaps Jaskier had built up enough goodwill with the burly witcher to warrant being let down gently.

And Jaskier might welcome a few more distractions, such as a dalliance with someone, before he had to face the truth. The addition of unexpected flowers from an unknown source was as good as any to seize upon.

In lieu of an answer, Geralt grunted, and left to procure dinner. There was no maid service at night time, when the tavern was no doubt filled with smug market traders and locals, spending their hard-earned coin or showing off new wares. Jaskier sat heavily, and considered running. He could do it, and had indeed, escaped from irate husbands and even a party of bandits once. He was actually quite good at finding hiding spots to cower in, while the men with knives hurried past, then creeping out and sprinting in the other direction. It had worked very nicely.

Instinctively, he knew it would not be pleasant at all when Geralt caught him. Because he definitely would. Geralt was no cuckolded wine merchant or mere thief. He was a witcher. A tracker, hunter and executioner of the most wiley, terrifying wild monsters of magic and myth that roamed the lonely places. Jaskier didn’t know the first thing about covering his tracks or scent, nor where to procure a talisman or charm that might aid such an endeavour. And with this delicate injury, he hadn’t a hope of getting far.

Futhermore, Geralt was currently as docile as he ever was. If Jaskier ran… fury would no doubt transform him into the deadly witcher that Jaskier never ever wanted to stare down from the wrong end of a sword. This is what came of defying good sense and befriending dangerous, mysterious men on the road. They were in prime position to lop your head off if you showed any inklings of hirsute, moon-crazed bloodlust.

With an ice cold pool of fear and self-pity trickling down his back to fill his guts, Jaskier realised Geralt had the right of it, avoiding all talk of werewolves. When he arrived with food, it was a welcome distraction, allowing Jaskier to stuff his mouth rather than flapping it. When the pie was demolished, he seized his songbook, and babbled about the forests of Bluebell town for a good hour as he scribbled. By then, Geralt had clearly ceased even feigning interest. He was buffing his leather vambraces by the fireside, before moving on to his boots.

Finally, the swords were unsheathed with a familiar metallic zing. Jaskier had been humming a passable melody for his new masterpiece, and tried not to falter at the sight of Geralt, assessing his trusted steel and silver companions. The silver had been cleaned recently, obviously, and was set aside. But the steel sword with the distinctive golden, gem-encrusted circle at the hilt, seemed no less deadly as Geralt set about polishing it.

He seemed to sense Jaskier’s gaze, or perhaps smelt his fear, and their eyes met across the gathering gloom. Jaskier absolutely did not let out a squeak of terror.

“Hmm,” rumbled Geralt, “We should speak.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “Oh, now he wants to speak! Yes, let’s talk Geralt. There’s much we have to speak on. Tell me about these lovely flowers we have acquired, for instance. Or -how’s Roach? Kept well I assume? Find anything nice at the market earlier? Got any new contracts I should know of?”

“Jaskier…”

“No, you’re right. Maybe we should talk about the great big beast that tried to claw my head off!” Jaskier yelled, “I can’t think why such a subject might have significance though. Oh, that’s right, because I might turn into a bloodthirsty beast myself!”

Geralt fixed him with blazing eyes filled with ferocity, and for the first time, it incited real fear in Jaskier. Naturally, that fear made him furious.

“You’re right, clearly I’m the unreasonable one, wanting some answers!” Jaskier hollered, working himself up into a frenzy, “Indeed, it’s unfathomable that I, Jaskier of Kerack, having survived a vicious assault, might wish to know a smidgen more detail about my current condition!”

Geralt took the opportunity to cross the room in huge strides while Jaskier was wailing, and settled beside him on the bed. When Jaskier took a pause for breath, he calmly shoved one hand over the bard’s mouth. Jaskier was so startled he didn’t even squirm, just glared hotly at the witcher, offended. Geralt sighed heavily, as always, as though he was bitterly disappointed in Jaskier’s lack of equanimity.

“Calm down,” Geralt ordered, “If you get worked up, you may tear your stitches. Lie down, and listen.”

Like a grumpy cat, Jaskier puffed up with annoyance as he was released, but begrudgingly followed Geralt’s instructions, wrigging down into a prone position atop his pillows. He offered Geralt a sarcastic look, as if to question if the man was pleased with Jaskier’s ability to follow orders. Naturally, Geralt ignored it.

“The scratches were deep,” Geralt said huskily, “Aconite was the only way. But you survived.”

There was a long, heavy silence, before Jaskier realised he was supposed to understand what Geralt was alluding to.

“Yeeees?” He prompted, “I remember that part. Burnt like a-”

“In a quantity that large, aconite is a poison for humans. That potion was intended for a witcher; it should probably have killed you. But you survived.” Geralt clarified, with a poignant look.

Jaskier twitched, suddenly reluctant to follow where this conversation was leading him. And yet, cowardice had never been one of his flaws.

“So that means…”

“I don’t know,” Geralt huffed.

“You don’t know?” Jaskier repeated, “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Geralt’s jaw muscle churned as he ground his teeth together in clear frustration.

“Werewolf encounters before a culprit has turned, are exceedingly rare,” Geralt finally admitted, “I don’t know if you’ve been transformed. Aconite is poison to humans, yes, but far deadlier for werewolves. But if they are wounded with spears or swords coated in aconite, and manage to escape... They can heal from small amounts, given time.”

“So what you’re saying is, I’m healing from aconite poisoning, and that means I might not be a werewolf. But also that I might be?” Jaskier growled, “Well, that’s just bloody terrific. Very helpful, thank you so much for your input, Geralt-”

Geralt grumbled, a noise like a heavy roll of thunder.

“I told you this was a rare occurrence,” Geralt hissed through clenched teeth, “I don’t know, Jaskier! Usually, werewolves are dispatched before they can bite anyone else. And those who were already bitten are dealt with. Scratches are different. They have to be deep enough, and we won’t know if they were, unless you turn.”

“So I’m going to what, smell freshly skinned rabbit, and just morph into that- that beast?” Jaskier clarified, appalled.

“No,” said Geralt, “Only very powerful werewolves can transform at will. You’ll only turn, _if_ you turn, during the full moon.”

“Wonderful,” said Jaskier petulantly, “Just what I wanted to hear. A month of worry as I wait. That’s simply marvellous news.”

He squashed himself down further into the featherbed with a huff, crossing his arms and facing the wall. With only a light hum of disapproval, Geralt moved back toward the fireplace. Jaskier thought he might lie awake all night, his worried mind churning over the new information. But in fact, he quickly began to drift off, to the gentle background noises of Geralt clearing up his supplies. He was almost asleep, when Geralt finally spoke again.

“Chrysanthemums,” he muttered.

“Wha-?” Jaskier mumbled, his face half-stuck to a pillow with drool.

“The flowers are called chrysanthemums. The market trader said the purple ones promote healing. The scent, when they sit in the sunshine.”

“You sent coin for them?” Jaskier asked, astounded.

But Geralt said nothing more, merely moving about the room quietly, pinching out the candles before banking the fire and undressing for the night. Jaskier was already asleep by the time the witcher slid into the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the slumbering bard’s bad shoulder.


	4. Daffodil

Jaskier has never been a morning person; he’d certainly never needed to be. Even before he became a roaming bard, whose bulk of income came from patrons throughout the evening well into the night, he was never up before the dawn to work in fields or sweat beside a hot oven or the like. The childhood of a noble undoubtedly had its perks in that regard. Despite rarely travelling in his home kingdom, there is certain a confidence Jaskier has always had stemming from an upbringing that encouraged pride in one’s heritage. If he was ever truly destitute, he could crawl toward home, where he could leverage his family's good name as a promise of future payment, for any aid given. His father would make good on any debts Jaskier incurred. So far he has never had to resort to such measures. But perhaps such a time is not too far off, given his current predicament.

The salient point is, Jaskier has never felt truly helpless before. Even on various adventures with Geralt, well, he was _with Geralt_. There’s really no one better to have at your back than a witcher, whether that entailed being protected from murderous elves or equally murderous husbands among the nobility. Jaskier has bounced through life with the knowledge that a cushion was there, ready to soften his fall. For the first time, he feels the weight of his own mortality; he’s hurtling toward his own inevitable, crushing fate and nothing can slow the canter of this particular stallion.

Now, Jaskier gradually accustomed to the pale light of morning, which was streaming through a gap in the thin curtain at the window. Jaskier had found himself lying beside a man who had made it his mission to kill threats to humans, a man tucked neatly against his back. A warm wall of muscle that had hitherto been a subtle comfort, in chilly nights under the stars, or tucked away in lodgings such as this. A reassurance that Jaskier was secure from harm; his sleep would be undisturbed by bandits or other interlopers. Biting his thumbnail in agitation, Jaskier carefully rolled to face the slumbering Geralt, who was snoring very gently. Barely making any sound at all.

Geralt had always been quiet. Secretive and mysterious, which Jaskier had mistakenly believed was a reputation Geralt had purposefully cultivated, once. He knows better now; Geralt just doesn’t like ruminating and reflecting much. He doesn’t want to discuss the flaws and pinnacles of his journeys. Geralt is satisfied to see a job done, and then move on and forget about it entirely. Is that what Jaskier will become soon? Just another dead beast, soon blown away like dry top soil, a memory barely stirred as Roach’s dependable horsehooves pound the dirt to many more destinations. Will a snatch of a half-forgotten melody be all the reminder Geralt has, of a bard he once called a friend, however begrudgingly, in centuries to come? What a terrible, tragic thought.

Despite the dread that his death by Geralt’s hand, imminently, was a very real possibility, Jaskier snuggled into the broader man’s chest. Pressing his cold face into Geralt’s slightly sleep-warmed chest. He couldn’t help but feel reassured by the proximity, even if Geralt was still cooler than a normal human, his heartbeat an achingly slow thud that is barely audible. Jaskier drifts into a half-doze with his head resting on Geralt’s considerable muscles, too comfortable to move even when the colossal man begun to stir below him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbled, his voice gravelly with sleep, like a mountain that had learnt how to speak, “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jaskier mumbled, “Sharing heat. You’re liable to freeze in your sleep, being a cold-blooded witcher and all.”

“Hmm,” Geralt groaned, but he did not attempt to move away or otherwise dislodge Jaskier.

Jaskier wasn’t fooled by his companion grumbling like a displeased bear. Geralt constantly revealed his softer side without even meaning to. It made Jaskier wonder if he was privileged to see it simply by virtue of being in close proximity to Geralt more than any other person. Or if Geralt was actually adapting, gentling toward Jaskier and the world in general.

“You bought me flowers,” Jaskier suddenly remembered, giddy at the sweetness of the gesture.

“Shh,” Geralt hushed him, but that wasn’t a denial.

Charmed by Geralt’s inability to truly mask his inner kindness, Jaskier snuggled closer and revelled in the reluctant affection Geralt held for him.

Thus they passed the early morning in quiet seclusion, undisturbed by the muffled sounds of the town below bustling as it came to life. Their day didn't get any more exciting, even when they did eventually leave the room. There was a low stone wall surrounding the front of the inn, which Jaskier promptly used as a convenient bench to sit beside his lute. He idly strummed her with his good hand. The low wall doubled as a helpful platform for his lute, which he could not simply throw across his shoulder, and might never get a chance to play professionally again.

Jaskier forcefully pressed away that morbid thought before it could take hold, and began to practice his new song. It seemed as though they wouldn’t be leaving the town of Bluebell any time soon. A charming ditty about the place was likely to endear them to the locals. Indeed, while Geralt had marched off with a gruff warning not to overexert himself, Jaskier drew a crowd comprised mainly of local children, via his voice.

By the time Geralt returned, as grim and forbidding as ever, Jaskier had been paid for his efforts with a handful of coppers, a nice handkerchief and a daffodil tucked behind his ear by one particularly brave little urchin girl. Jaskier had played another handful of songs just for that, despite flagging. Geralt took one look at him sagged against his lute, and tugged him up by his good arm. He gruffly announced the performance was over. Jaskier offered a commiserating smile to the startled children, who quickly scattered.

“Ah, Geralt,” said Jaskier with feigned disappointment, “Always the one to break up the festivities. You need more jollity in your life-”

“Jollity often leads to chaos,” Geralt warned him, “Especially when you’re involved, Jaskier.”

“Hey now,” Jaskier protested, offended, “I am not the one who regularly gets mixed into tavern brawls. Brawling isn’t my forte-”

“Resting ought to be your forte,” Geralt declared, chivving his charge toward their room. Jaskier went without protest, eager to lie prone again. Who would have thought that a few hours lounging under a cloud-riddled blue sky could feel so stenuous?

But that didn’t stop him from cheekily declaring that Geralt was too grumpy by half, and twisting the daffodil into his white hair when Geralt was distracted. A rumble of disapproval was all he gained, as Geralt seemed determined to be unmoved by Jaskier’s antics. He pretended the flower didn’t bother him, leaving it tucked into the twist of his hair which was drawn back.

That bright yellow flower was a splash of ostentation, into an otherwise drab day. It somehow softened Geralt’s overall ascetic enough, to remind Jaskier that the witcher had more depth to him. Far more than most men would care to admit. Geralt wouldn’t simply kill Jaskier without warning. It wasn’t his way. Geralt only actively sought out creatures that went after people, after all. If powerful beings were simply living non-nefarious lives, out in the wild, Geralt left them to it. Jaskier had once seen him turn down contracts to kill little pestulant pixies, that were regularly thieving a farmer’s crop.

“So set traps,” Geralt had rumbled to the wealthy man, “I am not a rat-catcher.”

The fat landowner had huffed and shaken his coin purse rudely, and Jaskier had called Geralt a dolt for turning down such easy coin.

“It’s hardly an honourable contract,” Geralt said, “I am not in the business of exterminating a whole hive of anything. Monstrous creatures that prey on the weak, yes. Starving animals pilfering a few carrots? I think not.”

It was all Jaskier could cling onto now. Plenty of wolves and bears and whatnot must roam the wilds without ever meeting humans with hungry fang and claw. It was perfectly possible that a shaggy, furry Jaskier would be capable of the same.

“You indulge me,” Jaskier announced, when Geralt returned from yet another trek downstairs to fetch sustenance.

Geralt merely looked to him.

“You let me sleep on you,” Jaskier continued blithely, “You didn’t… tear off that daffodil and crush it in your fist.”

Geralt tucked into his bowl of stew without even acknowledging Jaskier with another glance. He took so long to interact again, in fact, that Jaskier got busy composing a heart-rending song about an adventurous companion dying after saving a witcher’s life in a stunning feat of brave heroics. In a moment of lull, while he searched for a suitable rhyme, Jaskier paused to idly taunt his friend.

“First the crissa-mums, and now the daffodil?” said Jaskier teasingly, “Are you perchance growing soft on me, witcher? Dare I say, fond?”

“Hmm,” rumbled Geralt, and almost as if to call Jaskier’s bluff, he leant forward and pressed a chaste kiss atop Jaskier’s crown, right where his lose hair met his forehead.

Jaskier froze in delighted surprise, and tried very hard not to melt right then and there, at such a show of sweetness from his otherwise unflappable friend.

“You think too much,” said Geralt, “It wears you thin. Makes you fretful.”

“You talk too little,” Jaskier pouted, once he had recovered from the unprompted show of affection, “I wouldn’t fret if I knew a little more of what was in store. Perhaps if you shared your inner thoughts once in a while…”

“There is a thought I would share,” Geralt said, to which Jaskier perked up even more.

“Oh yes?” he prompted, when it seemed Geralt was set on ruminating a little longer on how exactly to give voice to his thoughts.

“There is a sorceress who might know of some other remedy-”

“Not that awful harlot that rid me of the Djinn,” Jaskier immediately protested.

He doesn’t trust that moody witch to offer any assistance without a steep price, and last time they’d gone to her for help, a building had almost flattened Geralt. That’s the sort of assistance they can gladly do without.

“No,” Geralt rumbled, “Another witch. One more… stable. She may know of a way to ensure you do not turn. Or how to create a brew that will dampen its effects. I was taught to mix specific potions, not suitable for humans to consume, I am not talented in the intricacies of brewing new concoctions.”

It sounds like more of a plan than lingering in sleepy Bluebell town, where Geralt doesn’t appear to have heard wind of a single commission in the nearby area. Jaskier consented to tracking down this other witch, cautiously optimistic about a possible preventative tincture. They have nothing to lose from the attempt, and perhaps a way to save him. Their travel plans take up what remains of the evening, and neither of them brings up the kiss, nor the cheerful yellow daffodil now safe among the chrysanthemums, again.


End file.
